LIBRAr,7 OF CONGRESS. 

UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. 



THE 



RAG FAIR 



Other Reveries. 



L. CLARKSON, 

Author of ''Violet" and ''Gathering of the Lilies. 



Jw^.L.C. Ujtitzir.U 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

F. W. ROBINSON & CO. 



1879. 



t^ 



.N^7 



11^ 

1^- 



Copyright 1S78 

BY 

F. W. RouiNsoN & Co. 



Allen, Lane & Scott, 
Printers. 



Drawing by 

E. B. Bensell. 

Engraving by 

J. W. Lauderbach. 



CONTENTS. 



THE RAG FAIR: A Twilight Reverie. 

Illustrations. 



Title-page. 

"I have read somewhere of a marvellous Rag Fair." 

"What a wonderful collection." 

"There are tiny robes." 

"There are boyish frocks." 

"There, too, is the lover's knot of blue." 

"Tattered bits of the brave self-trust." 

"And banished there are the locked-up cerements." 

"Truly, 'twould be a ghostly array." 

"And the life goes on." 

" How strange to stand in that strange land." 

"God help us all, as these earth-robes fall." 

"We cannot know." 

"God help us all! He knows our righteousness is but as filthy rags." 

" So let us hope." 



HADES : The Reverie of a Philosophc, 
LIFE : The Parson's Reverie. 
BREVIARY : A Last Reverie. 



Illustrations. 
"They come, and come from a vague somewhere.' 
" They wake and sleep, and cry for bread." 
"They watch and wait, they toil and fret." 
" Pausing at last on the shelving shore." 
"They go and go to the vague somewhere." 



DEDICATED 



MRS. D. L. BART LETT. 



It is true that " I have read soine-wJierc" of this fanciful "Rag Fair for Spiritual 
Garments" but where or what, I know not. It is one of those dim impressions which 
render it difficult to recognize an occasional idea as a possible memory. I have therefore 
used the conscientious quotation-marks to indicate a few thoughts which seemed to linger 
in my mind as recollections. 

THE AUTHOR. 



The Rag Fair. 



A TWILIGHT REVERIE. 




I have read somewhen 

of a marvellous "Rag 

For Spiritual Garments, to be found 

In some far, unknown region, on the bound 

Of this angel-forsaken Eden, where 

Our fall hath shamed our souls from standing bare 

Before the god of Self, wise in their sin ; 

And so, for decency, we clothe them in 

^ Vestments of Earth which Time filches away 

And keeps in hiding 'till some 
better day. 





What a wonderlul collection it would be, 

And how it would amaze, 

If one could see in some grim place. 

Gathered together for eternity, 

The cast-off raiment that men's souls have worn 

To hide their barren want ; or to adorn 

Their shapely fullness; or belie their ill 

In the sheep's-clothing made for wolf- wear still ! 



There are boyish frocks that were crimson when 

We stood sturdy in them and said we were "men;" 

But they faded to grey, and were dropt. And there 

Is youth's many-colored cloak, once fair 

As Joseph's, but dyed with the fatal stain 

Of the blood of our lamb of innocence slain. 

And there is the mail of a hero's pride, 

Rusted and shattered and gaping wide 

Where the arrows pierced; and broken and bent 

Where the hard blows fell making many a rent. 

Near by is the mantle of withered prime, 

Filthy and worn with abuse and time; 

It scantily clad the shivering soul 

That blamed the world for each stain and hole. 





<^^ 



-( 



There, too, is the lover's 

knot of blue, 
That bound us fast, 
and seemed as true 

As God ; but 

we watched the 

color fade 



Into the ghasdy ashen shade 
Of death. And into that Fair are tost 
All those marvellous things which are lost: 
Shreds of bright hopes, too early torn ; 
Remnants of joys too soon forlorn ; 
Rags of those promises we thought 
Into the "silver cord" were wrought; 
Draggled ambitions, remembered not ; 
Sack-cloths of penitence, long forgot: 



Tattered bits of the brave self-trust, 

Drawn round us when we sprang from the dust 

Of a confidence betrayed and cast 

Under foot. And there we'll touch at last 

The shroud of doubt in which, some night. 

The angel. Faith, lay hid from sight ; 

And know how 'twas made on the loom of sin, 

Its woof— unbelief— woven out and in 

With the tangled warp of bitter strife 

'Gamst Him who gave our ano-el life. 




And banished diere are the locked-up cerements 

Of lost, lost loves (not as cast-off garments 

Ihrust into dim corners of the Fair, 

For they are more tiian perishing wear,) 

By memory carefully laid upon shelves. 
Identified only by God and ourselves 




Each tied with the harmless bit of crape 
That once, to our sad eyes, seemed to drape 
The whole of the beautiful, glad world:— 
It is but a string, now, limp and curled. 
Perhaps, at first, we would scarcely know 
The shrunken sign of our shrunken woe 




Truly 'twould be a ghostly array ! 

They clothed us once but were "clutched away 

By the fingers" of Fates ; or rent one day 

By the thorns of disaster ; or flung aside 

In some sharp moment of wounded pride, 

When apish Envy heard their gloss 

Was wearing off. Or worse, our loss 

May have been but a pitiful decay, — 

A dropping off — a falling away 



In tatters. — So, silently, one by one 



They are left, and forgot. 
Goes on exulting towards 



And the Life goes on : — 
ts goal ; 

For the ties of earth 
cannot bind the 
Soul 

And when the hori- 
zon grows low 
and wide, 

And near and plain 
seems the other 
side, 




Naught follows the Soul from the world over past, 
But its own swift shadow, downward cast. 



^^gsr riches are (prrupiM 




How strange to stand — -:^ 

In that strange land, 

And hold these wretched fragments in our hand ! 
How we would search and linger by the heap, 
Too sore to smile, too curious to weep ; — 
We'd lift each one up reverently, and try 
To recognize it, pass it slowly by, 
Sighing as much with wonder as with pain : 
So strange 'twould be to meet spent lives again— 
To shake hands with ourselves in long lost places- 
Feeling half stranger with our own old faces. 
'Twould be like lifting up the cofifin-lid 
To peer at some dead neighbor, so long hid 
We scarcely think it worth our being shocked. 
But look, — because the casket is unlocked. 



God help us all 
As these earth-robes fall ! 
For we know not what vestures we shall wear 
The next: — whether a purple, princely gown 
Of high success; or ease, like robes of down; 
Or harsh denials, like the camel's hair 
The Prophet wore; or sable weeds of grief; 
Or smooth white burial robes of last relief. 




We cannot know. 
We breathe below 
The purer air of heavenly things made plain: 
And what we choose, 
And what we lose, 
Are given or taken by hands unshaken 
By mere desires; and when our souls awaken 
The next glad dawn, 
They will sing on. 
Through all eternity, the wondrous strain: — 
" IFc are the redeemed ; for ice are 
tJicy whieh came out of great 
trikilation. We have washed, 
our ivbcs and made them luhite 
in the Lamb's blood." 




God help us all! — He knows "our righteousness 
Is but as filthy rags," yet none the less 
Has promised, as through earthly mire we toil. 
To wash us at the last from every soil. 
Yet scarce we stop, as our garments drop, 
To ponder on the beauty of the thought, 
That, with all changing, we are never brought 
To utter nakedness; even when we 
Put off the passion of mortality. 




'-" believing God will put on us the peace 
Of immortality, we smooth each crease 
From out our wrinkled fame; we patch our pride 
And darn our reputation — our best side 
Turned outward, but our seams and stains concealed 
From all but Christ — to whom all is revealed; — 
By whom our rags are purged, and we are healed. 



So 

I cars liiat i^i'uijr, 

() I when poisin-- <mi tin- " <\' r hriok 

y.Ji mis numanity, to catch sunn L.ik 
Between all earthly joys and heavenl\ 
May find in some far limbo such a 
The fairest garments they have ever worn: — 
The seamless robes that cruel hands have torn; 
The fadeless vestures of unchanging love, 
Folded within God's care, and laid above 
Our reach, where moth of jealousy, or rust 
Of doubt cannot corrupt. Though gathering dust 
Of long years lies upon them, we will take 
Them from their shelves when we are risen, and sliake 
Earth's dimness from their shining threads, and press 
Them 'neath the new robe of Christ's Righteousness; 
For they no more have trailed their hems below, 
But long ago were washed as white as snow. 




Hades. 



THE REVERIE OF A PHILOSOPHER. 




HADES 



THE REVERIE OF A PHILOSOPHER. 



Where the earthly shade is 

Growing deep, 
Lies the silent Hades 

Of our sleep. 



No man knows the region, 

Cold and grim, 
Where his hopes, a legion. 

Vanished dim. 



Very strange and dreamless 

Is that rest, 
Where the sun goes beamless 

Down the west. 

Earth grows fainter, dimmer 

To our thought ; 
Heaven's far-off gHmmer 

Scarce is caught. 

Sights and shapes and fancies 

Mock our gaze. 
And the Soul advances 

In amaze. 

Vaguely seen, a river 

Hurries by ; 
We would halt and shiver ; 

We would fly 

From the flood beneath the 

Shelving brink — 
Nearer is the Lethe 

Than we think. 



But our groping spirits, 

Onward led, 
Cannot pause to fear its 

Solemn tread. 

Can we stem the water ? 

In a breath. 
While we gasp and falter, 

Pass we Death. 

What is lying yonder? 

Wait and see. 
One day we shall wander, 

I, with thee, 

In the land of shadows. 

Nothing seen ; 
And in all the meadows. 

Nothing green. 

Not a palm tree growing 

High and sweet ; 
Not a daisy blowing 

At our feet. 



Not a glad bird singino- 

Through the air; 
Not a zephyr flinging 

Perfumes there. 

Sad and low, the tuneless 

Winds are dead, 
And the mists are moonless 

Over head ; 

Yet no sunlight quivers 

From that sky 
To the cold, gray rivers 

Stealing by. 

Is it eve, or sunrise? 

I know nought ; 
And the Soul is unwise 

Asking aught. 

A strange land, where summer 

Has no part. 
And forever dumber 

Grows thy heart. 



A strange land ! and lonely 

Is thy soul; 
For each heart knows only 

Its own dole. 

Just thy conscious spirit 

In all space ; 
Not an answer near it; 

Not a face, 

Save the phantom faces, 

Sad, forlorn, 
Shorn of earthly graces 

They had worn. 

That will pass thee, dreary. 

Up and down, 
Never chill nor cheer thee. 

Laugh nor frown. 

Not a sense that made these 

Faces sweet 
Will have place in Hades, 

When we meet. 



Not a sound is human ; 

Not a view ; 
Not a man nor woman 

Whom we knew; 

Not a breathing mortal, 

Loved before, 
Greets us at the portal 

Of a door. 

'Though that door stands open, 

Friend, beware! 
Thou canst never grope in 

Blindly there. 

Hast thou come down fearless. 

Through the night? 
Was the river cheerless? 

Was it bright? 

When earth-loves receded 

To depart, 
Came some one and pleaded 

For thy heart? 



Hadst thou loved Him dearly, 

All the way? 
Didst thou see Him clearly 

After day? 

Then for thee are laid these 

Golden streets ; 
At the edge of Hades 

Some one greets; 

Some one who has waited 

Since thy birth, 
Whilst thou were belated 

On the earth ; 

Some one who will leave thee 

Not alone, 
But who will receive thee 

As His own. 



I^IFE. 



777^ PARSON'S REVERIE. 




r <y 



LIFE 



THE PARSON'S REVERIE. 



O BUSTLING and bewildering world, 
Into whose din our lives are hurled, 
How many souls with many voices 
Fill you full of racking noises ! 
And tempers clash and hard wills jar. 
And God's dear peace our passions mar. 



Each thread of destiny is twined 
Into the fate of humankind. 
Our tears dim other spirits' brightness ; 
Our sins soil other spirits' whiteness — 
(The father's crime is visited 
Upon the children's guiltless head) ; 
It drags us down that some will creep, 
And we are clogs to some that leap ; 
" But some are fallen asleep." 

O toiling lives, so poorly filled ! 
O troubled hearts, so seldom stilled! 
How shifted needs, and duties slighted, 
And broken vows, — loves unrequited, — 
Jostle each other rudely through 
The crowded days ! How some must screw 
And pinch to live ; some live to clutch 
From poor men's "little" all their "much"; 
But want will sweeten hardest bread, 
Remorse will pierce the softest bed. 
While grief has comforts of her own 
And is not left to mourn alone. 
For still some sow, while others reap. 
And many starve that few may heap ; 
"And some are fallen asleep." 

There are so many ways in life ; 
This one is peace, and that one strife. 
A few run smoothly day by day, 
The most are stony all the way. 
To some, the storms of woe come never, 
To some, the rain seems falling ever. 
Men who are faithless grasp no trust 
To call their souls up from the dust, 



While some climb blindly, with the hope 
Their hands will, some day, cease to grope. 
Full-satisfied ; and God — He knows 
How each blind-driven pilgrim goes ; 
For He is just to me and you, 
And makes His endless balance true, 
And, holding all things in His keep. 
He wisely gives to laugh or weep. 
And some " He giveth sleep." 

O men ! ye schemers, workers, drones, — 
Ye misers, spendthrifts, how your tones 
Grate on each other. Is there none, 
Of all the choir around the throne 
Where heavenly harmonies are poured, 
Can sweep the angel's decachord, 
And find a higher, nobler key 
To tune the world's discordancy ! 
Does God hear voices of His own, 
Amid the universal moan? 
For men who live cry out for death. 
And dying men shriek back for breath. 
While He (who never checks our prayers 
To tell us of the many cares 
His children, in all times, let fall 
On Him), still "careth" for them all. 
And heeds the bleating of His sheep. 
Guiding them down the earthly steep: 
"He giveth His beloved sleep," 



Breviary. 



A LAST REVERIE. 



They come and come """^ ^ 

From a vague somewhere, ^ 
Tiny and dumb, ^ 

Helpless and bare. "^ 

What are diey seeking? — 

Grovvdi and speech, 
Food and raiment, 

And room for each. 

Ye Gates of Life, lift up anew, 

And let earth's litde travelers through! 





II. 



They wake and sleep. 

And cry for bread; 
They laugh and weep, 

And their wants are fed. 
What do they ask now? — 

Love and hope. 
And after pleasures 

Grope and grope. 
Lift up, ye pearly Gates of Peace, 
And let their resdess 

longings cease ! 



They watch and wait, 
They toil and fret; 
Across each fate 

They write "regret." 
Over each joy 

They say "undone," 
And drop their treasures 

One by one. 
Stand open, rusty 
Gates of Time, 
Into your portal see 
m climb ! 





They go and go 

To the vague somewhere ; 
Little they know 

Of the future there — 
Naught they take 

From the years of earth, — 
Empty-handed 
As at their birth. 
Fling wide, O golden gates of Heaven 
Let in the world — redeemed, forgiven. 



^8 603 iioT *^ 



